


Blindness, or Haymitch and the Seventh Escort

by Spicaa



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, twenty-five years of haymitch's life in the capitol basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spicaa/pseuds/Spicaa
Summary: Haymitch doesn’t care, and his mentor, Fenton, doesn’t seem to mind, either. Fenton has seen over a dozen escorts, he tells Haymitch. They’re all the same. They don’t stick around, and they all have an empty head over their shoulders.





	Blindness, or Haymitch and the Seventh Escort

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this a while ago and it was a completely different concept, but it just sort of had a mind of its own. Would love to know your thoughts about this - really long - one-shot!

 

His first escort is Bella — hair very bright, very big. She's the one who reaps him. She's wearing a suit the same color as her hair that day. Her eyes are very dark and she's probably just five or six years older than him. She nags him about being too moody, complains about his manners during meals, screams in shock when he comes in for dinner that first evening in the Capitol wearing burgundy and lime green together, and Haymitch thinks she may favor Maysilee instead of him but he doesn't think she truly cares about any of them.

She's elated when he wins, of course, and she's nice enough afterwards; she acts as his own personal stylist when the actual stylists aren't required, pampers him with food he likes, buys him a whole new wardrobe for his new home. In the future, he'll only remember her as a bright spot and a very loud voice.

"I've never seen such a poor wardrobe in my life," she says when she opens his too big wardrobe in his new too big house. He only has one good shirt and an old jacket that belonged to his dad. "Really, dear, I'm here to make everything easier for you."

"Like when you reaped me, huh?" Haymitch says, sitting down on the too big bed.

The prep team is looking at him with wide eyes and Bella's moves falter for just a second.

He doesn't really care.

No one addresses his outburst. Bella is the first to speak, while still hanging new shirts in the wardrobe.

"So much maroon here, and dark blue. Not trendy at all," she shakes her head, then turns back and smiles at him. "You need some color in your life, darling."

All the new clothes are ugly, he thinks, but the fabrics are soft and more comfortable than anything he's ever owned. Bella is just doing her job, he knows, and he knows she can't help the way she truly is, but it's still a pain in the ass to deal with this. His family is dead, however, and it seems stupid to kill himself after forty seven kids died in the arena, so Haymitch puts on a teal colored shirt — as Bella informed him, anyway — and lives.

Bella tells them in the Victory Tour that she's been promoted to District 3 and therefore won't return to Twelve next year. Haymitch doesn't care, and his mentor, Fenton, doesn't seem to mind her, either. Fenton has seen over a dozen escorts, he tells Haymitch. They're all the same. They don't stick around, and they all have an empty head over their shoulders.

In the future, however, he'll understand that Bella managed to keep him away from vultures and protected him enough that no one mentioned his family to him. She's not bad, all in all — Bella is just Capitol, and that settles everything.

* * *

His next escort is Ramona Dellacott.

Haymitch hates her instantly.  _Instantly_. Maybe it's the makeup — very dark. Her eyes are a light brown and they're as icy as Twelve's first blizzard that winter. She wants to win. That's all she cares about.

The role of mentor isn't one he likes — he mostly just watches Fenton, to learn everything. The old man even asked Haymitch if he wanted to stay of the Games this year — but his home is too big and too empty and Fenton is really the only person he talks to nowadays. So Haymitch goes to the Capitol again.

He's older now — nearly eighteen. He befriends Chaff, Eleven's latest victor from a couple years ago, and Chaff takes him to better parties than the ones Ramona wants him to attend.

Twelve's tributes this year are young — twelve and fifteen. Fenton tells them how to prepare, and Haymitch watches the other tributes and knows Gail and Bill won't make it. He tries to help them — show them how to use a knife, show them how to make a fire. But they're just kids. They have no idea what's it like inside that arena.

They both die within the first twenty four hours of the Games.

Ramona laments the ordeal but comments that their deaths were cool enough to draw some attention; Haymitch leaves the living room then. Fenton doesn't stop him.

"Well, I'll not get promoted if we don't get a Victor," he hears Ramona complain as he closes the door. "Better work harder next year, Fenton."

It's enough to make Haymitch leave the apartment and the training center altogether.

Haymitch doesn't even care the next day, when he's hungover for the first time in his life, and Ramona is screaming his ears off for appearing in public with some girls he isn't supposed to hang out with.

It's only when they're going back to Twelve with two coffins that he realizes he's only two years older than Bill — still a teenager, but Bill's dead and Haymitch's still alive.

It's the first time Haymitch wonders if Bill and Gail and Maysilee aren't the lucky ones, after all.

* * *

Thalia is pretty, Haymitch will give her that. They're the same age — both twenty-three years old, both too young to be in this game, both too mature for their own good. Except Haymitch was thrown into adulthood when he was sixteen and had to kill other kids, and Thalia is a huge fan of his Games and even tells him she used to have his poster next to her bed. She's just used to watching kids kill each other once a year.

She's easy to impress, and doesn't give a damn about the tributes. Fenton ignores her antics most of the time. She's too silly, Haymitch knows, but she's pretty too. Her hair isn't super crazy like Ramona's or the escort after her, Leanne, who only stayed for two years. Thalia's just hotter. Used to be an actress, apparently. Haymitch doesn't get it, because she's not a good actress.

So it's not a surprise when Haymitch eventually manages to sweet talk her into bed with him.

They have a good time, all in all — for the four weeks he's in the Capitol that year. It's the first time he's been with someone more than once — usually one night stands are the usual for him, but Thalia stays out of his way during the day and keeps his bed warm at night — or at least for the brief period they are together before she goes back to her own bedroom or some other party. She takes his head out of the game, and Fenton complains, but Haymitch doesn't care — he's proved right when the tributes don't even make it to the top fifteen.

It doesn't mean anything — she's just a good fuck, and he's just the Victor she used to crush on. She's easy on him — laughs lightly when he makes a fashion mistake, combs his hair when it's too dishevelled, doesn't complain about his drinking.

"You have the interviews tomorrow, don't forget," Thalia says as she's adjusting her dress. Haymitch is lying in bed, in absolutely no hurry to get up. "Wear the navy suit. They look great with your eyes."

He rolls his eyes. "As opposed to the navy suit I wore today and that other one yesterday, you mean."

She chuckles. "Well, they all look great with your eyes. I'll have it draped over the chair in your changing room so you know exactly which one it is, okay?"

He shrugs.

During the Victory Tour, when they meet in Twelve, there's nothing there. She complains lightly about his choice of clothes and he's bored as hell at her babbling. She doesn't come back as an escort the next year — Fenton tells him she's been asked to go back to her movies.

Haymitch doesn't really miss her at all.

* * *

It's just his luck that Fenton dies before meeting the worst escort in history. Cleo nags him about schedules, nags him about the training, nags him about the kids. She even complains about the way he ties his shoelaces. Having to dance with her at the Coronation party — something customary between mentors and escorts, and something Fenton always did, not Haymitch — is hell. He steps on her foot on purpose. It makes her stop nagging him for three seconds. Then she nags him again.

He liked the kids this year. The fact that Cleo's already forgotten about them is something Haymitch particularly hates.

She's the first escort Haymitch formally complains about. He goes straight to the Head Gamemaker and lets the guy know just how bad she is at being an escort. Kadden understands, or so he says.

"I just want to formally request a new escort," Haymitch stresses his point again. "Can't be too hard to find, right? I mean, isn't there a crash course for escorts somewhere?"

"Cleo has good credentials. She's very good at PR," Kadden says. "Let's be honest, Haymitch, Twelve doesn't have the best image. Only two Victors in fifty-eight years."

"How's  _Cleo_ gonna help that?"

"Appearance is everything, Haymitch. You know that."

Cleo stays for three more years.

Still, in these three years, Haymitch may have acted on purpose just to annoy her — make a sport out of it. He's more often than not drunk; photographers still follow him around because he's still young and desirable and there's more than one magazine cover showing his latest antics — partying and drinking and getting girls he's not supposed to be seen with. On one occasion a magazine somehow gets some intimate pictures of him, and that does it for Cleo — she requests a transfer and goes off to Eleven.

He laughs every time Chaff complains about his escort.

* * *

Lavinia Davy is the one who replaces Cleo, and thank the heavens she's not as bad.

A Capitol drone, of course, like all the others, but she doesn't nag him too much; Haymitch doesn't think she cares enough for that. She's engaged to a Gamemaker, and that gets Twelve some connections they didn't have before. It doesn't help them win, though. The fact that there are recent, more good looking victors helps them all — the media isn't as interested in Haymitch as they used to be, and since Lavinia isn't so annoying Haymitch mostly keeps to himself. It doesn't matter if his hair is greasy or his clothes won't match.

"Just be yourself," Lavinia advises. "The public does love your irreverent self," she adds, just as Haymitch takes a sip of his drink and spits it back in the glass instantly. The orange stuff is really disgusting. He catches a grimace in Lavinia's face. "Well, don't do that while out there, okay, dear? And we should schedule a haircut. It wouldn't hurt to wash your hair more often, either."

Not as bad as Cleo, but still not exactly as nice as… anyone.

She stays on for five years — the longest any escort's ever stayed in Twelve, he thinks — and leaves because her husband left gamemaking and is now a sponsor. Haymitch thinks this may help him in the future, but it doesn't. She leaves just like the others.

Leaving nothing behind.

* * *

She's the seventh escort who's crossed his path as a Victor now. This year is apparently special, because it's the fifteenth anniversary of his victory or, as he chooses to name it, his survival. Effie Trinket looks every bit as loud as the entire Capitol, sounds extremely loud as well, and beams a smile when she holds out her hand for him to shake. They're at the train station, as the mayor said he absolutely  _had_ to meet his new escort there; Haymitch is drunk, and not in the mood for ceremony, so he doesn't, and she looks positively astounded at his actions.

He's scheduled for more appearances than usual, because of the anniversary. It does him well enough because he has more chances of getting sponsors for the tributes — the boy is too young, but the girl is seventeen and smart — enough that Haymitch thinks she may have a shot at this.

Overall, Effie seems just as aloof as Thalia (not as pretty, though, but still very pretty), as obsessed with manners as Lavinia (or maybe even more so), not as annoying as Cleo (but almost), and definitely not as nice as Bella (unless she's obviously faking it).

He doesn't think she'll last. Another Leanne, he decides.

He ignores Effie when she mentions his choice of clothes look atrocious, but accepts her help. He can't give up on the kids, not now, not so soon.

They don't, however; Neil is killed within the first five minutes of the Games, and Lily falls into a trap made by District 4's male tribute.

Effie's eyes are teary when he gets back to the penthouse, intent on drinking himself to sleep.

"I really thought she'd win," Effie says as an excuse; she isn't wearing a whole lot of makeup today and Haymitch kicks himself mentally for thinking she's pretty. She's Capitol. Just like everybody else here. Can't be trusted.

It's nothing, though. He's had pretty escorts before. They're all the same.

"Lucky for her, she didn't," Haymitch snorts as his reaches the bar. He wishes Lily was still alive, of course. But truthfully, deep down — he wonders if that's even the best option.

Effie grunts, or at least the noise is similar to a grunt, if she ever grunted. She's too much into  _manners_  for that. "Do you have to be so detestable all the time?"

He's pouring himself a drink and stops, just for a second, before continuing. That's new. She's usually all fake smiles and fake attitude and pretending she's truly happy to be his escort.

"Just being honest," he shrugs. "She was pretty. She had a big family. What good would it do her to win?"

Effie is young — younger than him by a few years, he thinks maybe six or seven — but the way her eyes falter is enough to tell him she isn't as clueless as she looks. She's still young to the game, though. Too young to really understand it, anyway.

"She would have been a  _star_ ," Effie answers stubbornly. "She would have made us all stars."

Haymitch snickers before taking a sip of the whiskey. "Yeah, I tried that once. The glamourous part doesn't last. It gets old really fast, and then you're up here, with us Victors, alone, surrounded by miles and miles of a dark sky. Really boring. Neverending."

"At least she would have been alive," she adds.

Haymitch stops. "Why do you care?"

His voice is rough. She seems to have caught herself — he watches as her posture goes rigid, how her index finger touches the skin around her eyes softly, drying them. She smoothes down her skirt and takes a deep breath. It all happens in just about three seconds, but it's enough.

"I'd have been promoted, of course," she says. The voice is high again, and loud again. A fake laugh escapes her lips. "Can you imagine it? My first year as an escort, with a victory!"

He says nothing, and watches her as she walks away. She does care, and he's even more convinced she won't last more than a year or two at best. Not many people are up to getting the job — fewer people are up to maintaining it.

It's a shame, though. Her eyes are especially pretty.

* * *

A year later, Effie is still his escort. They've lost four kids now — Neil and Lily and just recently Bruno and Loren. Haymitch is well aware of the fact that he's more or less drunk all the time nowadays, but he doesn't want to do anything to stop it. He doesn't really have many pleasures, all in all — he has no friends in Twelve, he has no real relationships aside from the casual one night stands, every year it's harder to get sponsors, and Effie Trinket annoys the hell out of him.

They fought this morning because she complained his tie didn't match his suit. He had no plans for the day except a lunch party — he knew he'd have no luck with sponsors but he had to try while Dereck was still alive. The boy died mid-afternoon, and Haymitch told Effie his outfit didn't change a damn thing and she should just keep her mouth shut all the time.

He doesn't understand why she's still doing this.

So she retorted something back to him — he can't really remember — and left to do paperwork or whatever it is that she does when she isn't nagging him about his outfit or his hair or his drunkenness.

He decided to get drunker instead and it's now almost ten in the evening and he hasn't had anything to eat but he's finished a bottle of whiskey. His thoughts are fuzzy at best.

Not fuzzy enough that he misses Effie standing in the doorway of the living room.

"What do you want?" He means to sound threatening, but his voice cracks and sounds hoarse.

"I've asked the Avox to bring you some dinner," she announces. "You should eat before you collapse."

He is hungry, now that he thinks about it. The offer sounds weird to him.

"Your wig is ridiculous," he says, and he's not sure why. The wig is all curly and sort of orange, or probably some other color like coral or whatever that he doesn't understand. He imagines her real hair is darker.

Hurt flashes in her eyes. He sees it because she doesn't bother hiding it. But she doesn't seem annoyed — she seems resigned.

"I'm sorry. About earlier," she offers. "Bruno didn't die because your tie didn't go with your suit. Sponsors couldn't have helped him."

Haymitch shakes his head. "No. They couldn't."

Effie nods. He nods too.

"Thanks for sending dinner," he mumbles after, as best as he can from his slouched position on the couch.

Her smile is tight but it doesn't seem fake.

"You're welcome."

Their eyes lock and maybe there's understanding in them.

She turns back and leaves and he's left staring at her back.

A truce, of sorts.

* * *

He finds out the next year her hair is light blonde, and it goes so perfectly with her bright blue eyes that he wants to hate her. He hasn't seen many Capitol women with no makeup on — very few, in fact — and none looked remotely as pretty as Effie does.

Even if she's downright mad at him when he does see her like that.

It's the middle of the night; she has a robe on, and he can also see her naked ankles underneath — he  _knows_ she has great legs. He's broken a vase in the corridor when he arrived, not because he's that drunk, no — he's already sobered up in the eleventh floor before coming up to the penthouse. It's just that he tripped while he was drunk, and now he's limping. Not his fault the vase was so poorly located.

It's just his luck that it's right across Effie's bedroom.

She appears before an Avox is able to, and he hopes the kids are still asleep, because he doesn't particularly want them to see him like this. Effie is frowning at him, clearly irritated. He's leaning against the wall in support.

Okay, maybe he's  _still_ a little drunk.

She tiptoes across the broken glass, even if she's wearing fluffy slippers the same shade as the robe.

"Goodness, Haymitch," she mumbles. Her hair is long and wavy on her shoulders. She's never looked so pretty. He watches as she looks to the door that leads to the rest of the penthouse. "Yes, please, clean this up, will you?"

The request is a reminder that no matter what she looks like, she's still Capitol. She guides him to his bedroom while the Avox is cleaning the mess he's made, and he tries to apologize.

"Haymitch, be quiet. You'll wake the children and tomorrow is a big, big day," Effie hushes him.

He doesn't have it in him to argue back.

He's not that drunk that he just simply accepts her help, though; they bicker until she pushes him into the bathroom and orders him to clean himself up. The bathroom walls spin a little but he manages a quick shower and puts on some pajamas that Effie hanged in the doorknob. He rarely wears pajamas, so that's enough reason to know that he's drunk — not that anyone would actually  _know_ that.

He's surprised, however, to find Effie in the dressing room in between his bedroom and the bathroom. She's going through his clothes, apparently waiting for him.

"You're still here," he states.

She turns around very quickly, clearly startled. Haymitch leans against the wall, a little more sobered up now. Her eyes are impossibly bright, even in the faint lighting of the room. Her hair is very properly combed, so he thinks she must have taken the time to get herself more presentable. He likes her hair, he decides.

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't kill yourself by slipping in the shower," she retorts, looking him over. "You couldn't bother with the shirt, I see."

Haymitch looks down to himself — he supposes the now faint scar across his stomach isn't exactly attractive, but he isn't so bad looking that he feels self conscious. It still must be too improper for Effie Trinket.

"You're lucky I'm wearing the pants," he says.

She licks and purses her lips disapprovingly.

"Well, since I was waiting, I noticed you didn't set out the right vest and jacket for tomorrow," Effie says, clicking her tongue and getting back to his closet. "I specifically said to wear the one with the grape colored details, Haymitch, not olive. I didn't even use the actual color names, so you wouldn't get confused."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Maybe I wasn't paying attention."

She glares at him. "This is the one I meant," she picks out a vest.

Haymitch rolls his eyes  _again_. "Sweetheart, they are basically the same."

"Purple and green, Haymitch! Would you actually look and pay attention?"

He stares at her blankly.

Effie glares at him, then looks to both vests. He's not in the mood for this — the alcohol is finally making him sleepy, and he could use a nap before the Games start.

He takes a step ahead then realizes Effie is now looking at him with concern in her eyes.

"Listen, I'm  _fine_ , okay? You've seen me worse than this."

She frowns. "Exactly."

The word is barely more than a whisper. She puts one of the vests back in its hanger and turns around, towards him. He stops walking when he realizes she's untying her robe.

"Whoa, now, Effie, I don't know what—"

"What's the color of my robe?"

Haymitch makes a face. "I think we've established I'm not good with color names, woman—"

"Whatever color, Haymitch, just say it."

"Uh, light pink," he says impatiently. She pouts, and he gathers he must have gotten it right.

"And the color of my camisole?"

The camisole in question is lacy and made of satin that looks very soft and it's also quite short,  _and_  looks absolutely great on her, of course. It takes him a moment to reply.

"Dark pink. Purple," he tries, not really thinking it over.

"Haymitch, it's dark green," she says immediately. "You're color blind. You must be."

He shakes his head and snickers. "There ain't a lot of color in Twelve, sweetheart. I'm just not used to your Capitol colors."

He's been through escorts and stylists and he's been in the game for seventeen years. If he was color blind, they'd have noticed. He goes back to his bedroom and flops into bed, eyes closing way before he hears Effie opening and closing the door behind her.

But she's not convinced, apparently, because the first thing she tells him that morning once they're on their way to Twelve's viewing room to see the start of the Games is about a doctor appointment.

"You're going at two this afternoon, right after the sponsors' luncheon. Should be very quick, so it won't affect our schedule much," Effie says.

"Effie…"

"We have to know if you have a condition, Haymitch, so we can deal with it practically," she explains. "We could label your clothes, for example. Separate them by colors. I myself have my personal closet organized by color, occasion and item. It makes things  _much_  easier."

"I don't have a  _condition_."

"Just because no one ever bothered trying to find a reason why you're so bad at fashion doesn't mean that reason isn't important," Effie retorts. "You'll go, even if it's just for my peace of mind."

"Do I look like I care about your peace of mind?"

The subject is forgotten in light of the Games.

* * *

He hands her the tablet as he crosses the living room to the bar cart, chooses a random bottle of whiskey and poors himself a glass as Effie reads the article; he's done with his glass in just about 5 seconds and poors himself another. They lost the boy in the Cornucopia but the girl is still alive, hiding for the night. The Games are on, but the television is muted. Not much will happen until the morning.

"Protanomaly?" Effie asks. "That's not as bad as I feared, at least."

"Guess we know why my arena didn't really faze me as much as my fellow tributes," he says bitterly. "Imagine how bad you look in my vision, Sweetheart."

She's back at reading the article. "Oh, don't be so mean. We can work with this," she says quietly. After a moment she looks up at him with a frown. "I wouldn't look bad in your vision."

"No, you're too  _fabulous_  for that," he rolls his eyes.

He's been blaming his own stupidity for going thirty-three years without realizing he's color blind. It took Effie two years to realize that.

Maybe she isn't as dumb as the other escorts.

"No, no, I mean… my real coloring is just the same to you as to everyone else," she says quietly, eyes still focused on the article. "Well, not this wig, probably. This is red, by the way. According to this, you see red as maroon. Oh, that is  _truly_  dreadful. This is such a beautiful wig."

He does smile at that, but thankfully she doesn't catch him.

"We'll label your clothes," she says after a moment, putting the tablet aside. "I'll ask the prep team to do so in Twelve as well."

"Thanks."

She has the grace to smile.

"I'm your escort, Haymitch, this is my job."

"No, I mean," words fail him for a moment. She looks confused. "Thanks for thinking of this. I wouldn't have figured it out."

"Oh, that's okay. I have an eye for detail. The world must be so different in your eyes, I must say I am a little curious," she jokes.

Haymitch shakes his head. "The world is different in everyone's eyes, Sweetheart. Keep that in mind."

"Well, of course. Mine is clearly brighter."

He smirks. "Now I'm thankful for being colorblind. That wig looks ridiculous enough without being bright to me."

She rolls her eyes and stands up to leave the room; he watches her back and wonders why the quick conversation managed to lift his spirits up a little.

* * *

Something changed last year, he thinks. There's a softness to Effie that he's never really noticed before. She takes good care of the kids — better than any of the escorts before her, anyway. He allows her to look after him occasionally — not often, only when he's too impatient to mind her. He hasn't made a lot of fashion mistakes since his clothes got labeled — he simply has to remember the specific color Effie asks him to wear, then chooses it accordingly. Not always an easy feat when he's drunk, but sometimes he simply asks her again.

Not that he cares. It's just because he doesn't want to have to deal with her nagging.

He tells himself his change of perception and opinion of her is consequence of her care for him — his mother or teachers had never noticed he was lacking, and certainly his previous escorts had never given his mistakes a second thought.

It's definitely because of that, yes. Nothing to do with the fact that they've been more or less sleeping together since the coronation party last year.

It's different than it was with Thalia, though.

With Thalia, it was… open. Nobody cared. They just slipped in each other's bedroom, fucked and went separate ways. With Effie, the lines are more blurred — they will argue and then they'll fuck against a wall and he'll apologize for being a dick to her. She will forgive him, they'll adjust their clothes, and then he'll end up reaching for her on their way to their rooms and he'll kiss her again and he'll invite her to his bedroom and —

It is very hazy. The thing with Thalia was an open secret.

This thing with Effie should truly remaina secret.

Because it can clearly become more than it already is.

And still — as he moves inside her, watches her bright blue eyes turn dark and her pale skin blush under his palms — he can't bring himself to stop. Not yet, anyway.

Not yet.

* * *

He opens the door to the roof in a hurry and makes his way to a secluded part of the garden, one that he's sure cameras can't reach; Effie has stopped wrestling against his grip on her arm and is simply following him, looking a little shocked and not at all there.

He places her against the wall and takes a good look at her — the makeup is a little smudged, the wig is in its place. He sees what he searches in her eyes, though — the sadness in them, the glassy look, how bright they are when she's about to cry.

It's not good.

"You can't say stuff like that, sweetheart," he says loud and clear, because he can say that here, and he needs her to listen. "You have to keep your head in the game—"

"The Games are done for us, Haymitch," Effie interrupts. Her voice cracks. "She's dead. They are  _both_ dead, they—"

"I'm not talking about those Games, I'm talking about this game right here," he says forcefully. Her eyes widen. "This game that we play, that I've been playing since I was 16 and that you chose—"

"I wouldn't have chosen if I knew it was like this," she interrupts him again. It's so unlike her that he's taken aback. "She was just— she was  _twelve_ , Haymitch, she didn't deserve—"

" _None_  of them deserve it, Effie," Haymitch tells her. "None of  _us_ do, either. But you have to think that we do. You must play their game, Effie, you've been doing just fine until now."

"It's different."

He pulls away from her. Looks at her slow and good.

"Why?"

"She was so innocent," a tear escapes her eye. She blinks and two more roll down her cheeks. "She was  _so_ innocent…"

She lets out a sob next, and he hasn't drank enough to deal with this, but one of them has to keep a clear head and — well, Effie is clearly not up to it. He tries not to think of young Anya looking up at him with gray, hungry eyes when she boarded that train in Twelve. She'd be coming back in a coffin.

Another year, two new coffins to bring home.

Haymitch reaches for her. It's alarming how quickly Effie leans against him. He smells the synthetic of her hair and her perfume — the one she uses when she wants to impress, because they've just left a dinner with sponsors. They hadn't managed to find one — only one tribute left, and a young one at that. The girl just wasn't a Finnick. She wasn't trained to kill, she wasn't a strategy, she was just… a kid.

A kid who loved chocolate and complimented Effie's dresses and actually did well in her interview and improved her manners.

But she didn't know how to swim, and drowned in that arena along with many other tributes.

"She was alone," Effie sobs against his chest. "She was all alone, far away from her family, she was so scared, and she didn't… she didn't deserve it, Haymitch."

Effie will have to get herself together quickly, they both know that; they'll have interviews to do soon. She can't care about the kids she reaps — she has to keep herself grounded. She was raised watching the Games — it can't suddenly be different to her now. If she can't handle it, she should quit.

He'll tell her all that — he will remind her of all that before they have to go back to work, even if it means he may lose the best escort he's had — even if it means he may lose the closest thing he's ever had to a friend in the Capitol. This is where the line is drawn: not by their feelings, or physical need. They are simply different — they always will be.

"She didn't," he says eventually, agreeing with her. "She really didn't, princess."

But for now — for now he lets her cry it out.

* * *

She doesn't leave that year — or the next. Their affair is denied by the both of them to whoever may wonder — Chaff, Caesar Flickerman, that peacock Finnick, who keeps hitting on Effie now that he's not a kid anymore (and probably has more experience in certain things than Haymitch does, unfortunately), her family… The list goes on.

Still, it's harmless, or so he tells himself. There are no love declarations between them. Until two years ago she still had the occasional relationship with someone in between Games. He knows that. They aren't conspiring against the government or lamenting that they can't be together all year long. They aren't the first mentor and escort to have a thing — they won't be the last, either. He doesn't believe he truly puts her in danger; he keeps to himself most of the time, drinking and not bothering anyone. He's thirty-nine and doesn't take enough care of himself when he's in Twelve to be considered desirable. Snow has no plans for him, and so he's not worried about putting Effie in danger.

They lose their tributes early on, and without much to do in the penthouse besides drinking — well, he doesn't see the harm in agreeing to spend a night at Effie's actual apartment because it's closest to the party they're coming from.

He likes her apartment — it's very bright and dark at the same time — he suspects she's chosen many different colors to decorate, but since he can't be sure he can only guess. It's grand and her closet alone is bigger than the house he spent his childhood in, but he won't hold it against her.

It's just… very Capitol.

He likes her bedroom because it's soft — and she's a soft person underneath all that makeup and those frilly ridiculous dresses. When they're in her bedroom he feels almost as if there are no Hunger Games in the world.

Almost.

She turns the light off the bathroom and takes off her robe before climbing into bed — it almost feels domestic. She straddles him, and he appreciates the vision of her wearing a lacy short nightgown on top of him. He pushes thoughts of a different life aside.

She presses her palms to his chest and leans down to steal a kiss. It's a well practiced move. But she doesn't deepen the kiss — they've been at this long enough that it's okay to get ready for bed together, but he fully expects to have sex at some point in the night. Not because he expects it of her, but because he feels like they  _should_ , and he suspects she feels the same way.

Something's off.

"What is it?" He asks when she pulls away. Straight to the point.

Effie makes a face. "Manners," her voice is soft, though. "I wanted to be able to talk to you in private. Not on the roof, anyway."

"What is it?" He asks again, impatiently. He's sober tonight, for her, because she specifically asked him to, and he regrets it already.

"Next year will be my last year," she informs him.

His hands slid down from the spot they've been resting on her hips.

"They'll ask me to step down if we don't win," Effie continues. "If we win… I suppose I'll stay with Twelve for another year, and then they'll promote me to a higher ranking district."

Haymitch frowns. "So you'll leave either way."

She nods. "Eventually, yes."

He doesn't like it, and not for the obvious reasons.

"Why?"

"I've been your escort for nine years, Haymitch," Effie says tiredly, shoulders dropping. "It's a television show. They'll want to renew things a little. Change things up, make people more interested. We, the two of us… we are old news, darling."

"Guess we are."

It makes sense, all in all. He and Effie are good together during interviews but it's the same every year they don't have a Victor. Effie's popularity helped things for a few years but she's retired from her modeling days and thus can't bring much news aside from the Games. He should have seen it coming.

"At first I thought it was because of my age—"

He scoffs, placing his hands back on her hips. "You're thirty-two. There are escorts older than you. Plus you've never been hotter."

She flashes him a smile. "Well, I have this new personal trainer, you see. She's  _amazing_. You should see the training… Okay," she says when he gives her a pointed look. "Anyway, apparently President Snow finds our dynamic quite tiring after all these years," she sighs. "Well, he has specialists for that, I suppose. I just hope we'll get a Victor and I'm able to choose my next district. I'd like to stay away from certain Victors, honestly."

Haymitch's hands tighten their grip on her skin.

"I am certain I wouldn't get on well with Brutus— Haymitch?" Effie asks uncertainly. She sits back on her knees.

"President Snow requested your leaving?"

Her eyes widen. She nods.

"Who told you that?"

"Seneca," she replies, and normally he would grunt because he doesn't like how close they are, but his mind is too focused on other people to care. "I'm sure it's nothing, Haymitch."

"What else did Seneca say?"

"What I've just told you. That we are old news, they want a change. If we don't get a Victor, I leave," she crosses her arms in front of her, looking apprehensive. "It makes sense."

Yeah, it does. It makes perfect sense. It's almost too perfect to be an excuse.

"Nothing else?"

She bites her bottom lip, deep in thought. She looks worried.

"He warned me that we should be discreet," she says after a moment. Haymitch presses his palms against his eyes. "It's nothing he hasn't told me before."

"Yeah, well, it didn't come with a warning about you moving districts, did it?" Haymitch says, mentally kicking himself for the situation. "Fuck, Effie."

She climbs off his lap to lay down next to him on the bed.

"Come on, darling," the term of endearment is familiar to him. He hates that it is. "I wouldn't worry about it. We won't risk anymore than we've already risked."

He wants to remember her like this: disheveled hair around her face — shorter now, not long like all those years ago —, dark lips, wearing a nightgown she considers simple but that he thinks is exquisite, looking at him as if he's the most unreasonable person in Panem.

She doesn't understand — she wouldn't. But he does; he's lost too many people already.

He won't lose her.

The decision is made in the split of a second — she's confused and angry at him for leaving the bed, for getting dressed and for leaving her apartment. He can't risk her, he realizes — and understands completely that this weird relationship between them is more than just an affair. He would have stayed if he didn't care. But he does care — he cares so much that he leaves without a second thought.

They are nothing, after all. They'll always be nothing.

It's a small sacrifice for the certainty that she will remain alive.

* * *

"Do you ever wish things were different?"

It's her who asks such question. He's about to board the train; the coffins are inside, somewhere. They'll be buried in a small ceremony he's required to attend.

Haymitch doesn't think Effie is talking about that, though. She's too pragmatic for that.

They haven't really spoken since the night at her apartment and their conversations are strained, to say the least. She's abandoned the cheerful persona now that they're inside the train station and no fans or journalists are around.

There are Peacekeepers, though. Many of them.

"Yeah," he replies slowly. "Yeah, I do. Won't happen, though."

He boards the train and doesn't look back.

* * *

The next year is atypical to say the least. They have a volunteer, he's too drunk to actually function and ends up falling on stage — the bruise on his forehead is enough proof of it — and Effie is screaming at him to go mentor the kids before they've even left the district.

Not the best start of all Games.

He only sobers up slightly when he wakes up and it's way past dinner time by then. The corridors of the train are empty and he figures the kids are probably asleep. Effie, too.

Wrong assumption — the dining room car isn't empty. He sees Effie through the small window of the door — she's sitting by the table, alone, munching on a strawberry; an Avox stands dutifully by the wall. Haymitch debates going in or not — if he only wanted a drink he'd go to the bar car, but he wants some food. He's just spent months making do with what he could find in Twelve — he can't help himself if he likes Capitol food.

He goes in.

The door slides open and he nods slightly at Effie, who looks surprised to see him.

"You missed dinner," she starts. There's only dessert at the table, he sees now. Before he can say anything, she's turning towards the Avox. "Would you get Haymitch some of the lamb chops and mashed potatoes, please? The carrot soup, as well."

He cringes at her patronizing tone — not just towards the Avox, but towards him as well. He sits down across from her — or more like slumps down the seat.

"Are you sober?" she narrows her eyes. He rolls his.

"For now," he says sarcastically.

They are silent for a moment. She finishes the strawberry — she always takes such a long time eating, and it's always nagged him, but it's a Capitol habit and she is, after all, Capitol — and he leans back on the chair before deciding a quick glass of whiskey won't spoil his dinner. He stands up under her watchful eye, puts a few ice cubes in a glass and adds whiskey to it. The fact that she isn't complaining about that hug onstage speaks volumes.

It's awkward.

When he drinks half the glass at once, she snaps.

"Can't you give it a rest for a moment? At least until your stomach has some healthy content to it," she complains, clearly irritated.

Haymitch fills his glass and walks back to the table. She's wearing a dark dress in the same style as the suit she had on earlier. The wig is the same shade. He hates the makeup — too bright, too unnatural. In the past he would have asked which colors she was wearing; today he doesn't.

"Heard you got engaged," the words spill before he can think.

She blinks. "I did."

"Third time is the charm, eh?"

He doesn't know why he's asking, because he isn't interested. He knows she was engaged before — once before they met, another the winter before they slept together for the first time. Neither of those worked out.

"Apparently, not," she replies. "It didn't work out."

"Didn't know that. Sorry," he offers halfheartedly.

Effie narrows her eyes. "Are you?" he doesn't answer. She purses her lips. "I did nothing wrong."

"Not sayin' you did."

"I was single, so was he."

"Sure you were."

"It seemed like a good way out," she sighs. "We got a volunteer, Haymitch."

"So?"

She leans back against her seat. Crosses her arms in front of her. Half of her lips are painted bright, the same color as her face. The rest of it is heart-shaped, in blue lipstick. He knows it's blue because it's similar to her eyes, and he  _sees_ her eyes. For real.

"She's very popular already," Effie tells him. "Lacking manners, of course, but she volunteered in a district that has never had any volunteer. She didn't volunteer because she was trained, she volunteered to save her sister. Do you get what I am saying?"

"Yeah. People love a sob story."

"Well, yes, that too. But everyone's quite moved. Not  _just_ in the Capitol," she says. "She may be a potential winner."

He drinks the rest of the whiskey. "Don't go there, princess."

" _Don't_  call me that," she cringes. "Just… make sure you try, Haymitch. If Twelve wins I may be able extend my stay."

"Thought you were eager to find  _a way out_ ," he can't help the venom in his tone.

If Effie is surprised at the remark, she doesn't show.

"Why did you hug me?" she asks, completely changing the subject. He can only hope to understand how her mind works.

"I was drunk."

"But  _why_ did you?"

"Don't remember. I was drunk."

She opens her mouth, probably to ask again — she never knows  _when_ to quit, honestly — but the Avox enters the car again, bringing the food she requested.

"Thanks," he says to the Avox, out of habit. Effie stands up then.

"Do try to mentor them, Haymitch," she says, adjusting the skirt of her dress. "We both know it's been a couple of years since you truly tried."

The jibe is expected but hurts him more than it should; it's the truth, though. She just wouldn't have said so in the past. He watches as she leaves, pretending to be too focused on eating to truly care about what she's said. He won't think about Effie — he's done enough of that in the last couple of months.

Maybe he'll try and see what these kids have in them in the morning.

* * *

They don't touch until Katniss and Peeta win.

They work together, of course — he sees the potential in Katniss, feels respect for Peeta. He and Effie work on the sponsors and dinner parties, and this time the stylists and prep teams help, too — they all see it. The  _spark_.

He didn't think two could win the game but for once Effie's alliance to Seneca helps him — he knows where to see the Gamemaker, how to talk to him,  _what_ to say to win him; it's the most Haymitch has ever worked for the Games, the most he's tried to get a tribute to win, and heaven help him if that girl isn't worth it in the end. Stubborn, he knows. Effie says she's impolite and lacking manners. Pretty if there's enough makeup, Portia will say.

But it's the way Cinna sees her that has Haymitch suspicious. The stylist calls her inspiring — his muse, he says — but there's more to that. A calculist vision that Haymitch doesn't know what to make of yet.

They are alone when they see it — the whole act with the berries and the confessions, until the announcement that Katniss and Peeta have won. His mind is still reeling with this development — with the way things have been acted upon, both inside and out of the arena. He instinctively knows this won't end here. In a way, he feels it's only just started.

Still, he's not yet prepared when Effie screeches next to him on the couch. She jumps and claps and he's still wondering how the fuck they'll deal with this; he downs the rest of his drink — the one that's been sitting on his hand for at least half an hour — and stands up, not knowing exactly what to do and how to feel. Lucky for him, Effie acts before he can gather his thoughts.

She hugs him, and he can't help but hug her back, albeit awkwardly.

"We won!" she says against his ear. "We won, Haymitch!"

Then the phone is ringing and she's pulling away, answering it in a bright tone and talking very seriously to the person on the other end of the line. Haymitch sits back on the couch, absorbs what's finally happened.

Twenty-three years as a mentor, and he's never been in this position before. He's never brought a Victor home. Now he'll be the first to bring two.

"They'll be here in just about six hours," Effie tells him as soon as the phone call ends. "We need to go outside for the conference, then prepare ourselves to interviews and of course to welcome the children back. Oh, I cannot believe this. Two Victors!  _Two_!"

It takes at least an hour until they leave the penthouse — Effie needs to get ready for the press conference and he stays in the living room to receive news on the Victors' health and demeanor. In a way, it reminds Haymitch of years ago, when Effie had just started and was just insanely vocal and excited about everything. He knows it's not just parties and happiness now, knows he's got more to care about from now on and that it's not just him anymore; Effie, on the other hand, can only worry about parties and drinks and high profile personalities who will be interested in them.

It's funny, Haymitch thinks, how they could feel so close yet so far at the same time.

* * *

He doesn't know how to deal with post-traumatic shit; never had. He couldn't deal with his own — still can't, really — so he does what's best for everyone involved and keeps to himself. The girl is a mess — Haymitch knows she thinks of running away often, but she has a sister and a mom and whatever the hell the Hawthorne boy is to her. The boy, on the other hand, is more quiet — reacts better to everything, and Haymitch knows instinctively that he doesn't even consider leaving this behind even if he doesn't have much of a family to worry about.

So, Haymitch drinks.

Katniss brings game sometimes; Peeta brings bread. They both commented on the state of his house upon visiting the first time, but know better than to say anything now. Katniss said this isn't how humans lived; Haymitch thinks they're not truly considered humans in most parts of the country, so he won't bother trying now.

The Victory Tour is hell from start to finish. Portia is helpless, the prep teams are completely clueless, and the spark Cinna gave Katniss six months ago is a full blown fire now — they can't stop it, not even Effie's best attempts at propriety. He keeps his distance — he's unsure where exactly they're at these days. She won't leave until the next Games, he's sure — and then she'll probably be able to choose where to go.

It's better this way, he decides. From afar, he doesn't see the humanity in her; doesn't see the affection as often, or the bright blue of her eyes up close.

Talks with Cinna give him enough of a clue of what they're playing at, and if he's questioning anything he knows he only has to wait until the ball at the Presidential Mansion to be sure. It's a tense affair, one that he's tried his best to cloud with alcohol. It's where Effie finds him: with Cinna, by the bar. The stylist leaves just as Effie stops talking about their schedule.

Haymitch is silently drinking his whiskey until he notices she's looking at him expectantly.

"What?"

She's wearing a hideous blue wig and her skin has a pinkish look to it — unnatural. He likes how short her dress is, though, despite the ridiculous neckline; she's always had great legs.

"Aren't you going to ask me for a dance?" she asks.

"We've already danced," Haymitch retorts.

"Well, that's just protocol," she adds. Her eyes are twinkling, but he knows she likely hasn't had more than one cocktail. "We should celebrate a successful Victory Tour. Our very first."

Not his first, but he won't add that.

He drinks the rest of his whiskey.

"Okay. Let's go."

Effie sighs. "You are such a romantic, Haymitch, really," she rolls her eyes and adjusts his crooked tie slightly. "After the speech. I'm supervising Katniss and Peeta now."

Hovering, more like.

"Alright. After the speech," he agrees. She beams him a smile.

Their dance never does happen, though — not with his quick meeting with Heavensbee and Cinna in the shadows of the mansion. It takes a while for them to find him — and he decides to play the drunk card in order to avoid suspicion. Effie would have seen past that a year or two ago, but now he only catches a glimpse of her disappointment as he's brought back to the train.

He tells himself it's better this way.

* * *

"Yeah?"

There's silence. Then a shaky breath.

"Haymitch?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

She's been crying. He can hear it in her voice.

"Just peachy, Sweetheart."

Silence. So loud against his ear.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I may reap you."

"There's a fifty percent chance you will, yeah."

He hears a shaky breath.

"Keep your head in the game, Princess."

"I will," he hears her say. "May the odds be ever in your favor, Haymitch."

She truly means it, and he knows it.

He smirks. "Ain't they always?"

His tone is bitter even to him.

* * *

He opens and closes the lid of his flask, not really noticing the movement, too absorbed in his own thoughts.

It's all in motion. It won't be long now.

The city lights have always been something he liked in the past — he could never have seen anything like it in Twelve. Haymitch thinks he might have liked to live in a bigger town. Be more anonymous. He's never really had that option, and he doubts he ever will.

He appreciates the sight, though. Might be the last time he sees it as it is, after all. Might be the last time he sees it  _ever_.

He hears the door to the roof opening and puts the flask back in his pocket. Effie's quick click of heels is heard and then she's standing right beside him.

"There you are. I was wondering where you had hidden," she comments, a little bitterly, he thinks. "I  _never_ know what you're up to nowadays."

"I'm unpredictable. You love that," he smirks.

She rolls her eyes. "No. I  _hate_ that. Do you know me at all, Haymitch?" There's a grin on her lips. "Well, it's all in motion. There's no way of knowing how fast the Games will go, but I suspect it'll be over soon."

He hums his reply, leaning his elbows against the wall. She surprises him by doing the same, but not quite slouching — her posture remains perfect. It's probably the corset. He wouldn't know if they're still in fashion — he hasn't really seen one since they last slept together.

Seems like a lifetime ago.

"I will need to know where you are going when you leave, Haymitch," she continues. "If the Games come to a close and we… well, if we lose someone, I need to know where you are. I can only do so much with the arrangements, you know."

"We've only won one year, Sweetheart, I haven't forgotten about all the others. I know the drill," he insists. "Relax."

Effie huffs. "You know I can't," there's a pout on her lips. "Will you stay to watch this plan of theirs put to action?"

There's a beat. Their eyes lock. He knows she knows something's up. He isn't sure she wants to know, though.

 _He_ is sure he doesn't want her to.

"No. I have a meeting."

"At  _midnight_? With whom?"

Their gazes are unwavering. He doesn't answer.

"Very well. I'll stay here, to hold the fort," she jokes, but it's an empty one.

The words leave his lips before he can truly comprehend them.

"You could join me for the meeting."

Another beat.

"No, I couldn't," she answers, and rests her hand tentatively on top of his. "No, really. I have so much to do. And, well, in case anything goes wrong it would be… for the benefit of the children if one of us is here. To be notified right away."

It's a lame excuse and they both know it, but it's not the excuse itself — it's the thought behind it. They haven't always been very good at communicating — it's ironic that now when their words don't mean what they literally say they can understand each other. He knows she's right — there are sacrifices to be made and they've both made theirs. His is to leave, and hers is to stay, knowing the outcome will not be ideal for one of them.

They just don't know which one of them will take the fall.

His hand turns and grasps hers — pulling her towards him. She's surprised, but only for a second, when Haymitch kisses her again; he still tastes the same — sweet and dangerous. Her other hand runs through his hair and he struggles to get a feel of her in this monstrosity of a dress — she said it was pink, earlier. It's the first kiss they've shared in two years and it tastes like goodbye.

"Be careful," she murmurs when they pull away. In the faint light of the garden, with the glint of tears in them, her eyes have never been such a bright blue shade. He loves it —  _too much_.

He may love her, even, if he allows himself to.

The realization comes too late for him to give it enough thought.

"You too," he says. Her palm presses against his neck. His thumb is caressing her cheek — ruining her makeup. He doesn't care, and it doesn't look like she does, either. "I'll see you on the other side.

She gives him another kiss, a quick one this one, and pulls away from his arms. She nods, blinking the tears away and giving him a perfectly faked smile. Effie's gone, and the escort is back. She brushes her index finger against the corner of her eye.

"Look at that, I must retouch my makeup," she complains loudly. "I'll see you in the morning, Haymitch. Don't forget about the interview we have, first thing."

He forgets about such interview the minute she says it, and watches her walk back inside, for the last time.

* * *

The next time he sees Effie, she's no longer his escort.

She's thinner, wearing a white hospital gown, lying on a hospital bed. The insides of her elbows are all black and purple and blue, and so are the backs of her hands. It took awhile for the doctors to be able to find a vein to use. He doesn't want to know what they've been doing to her all these months.

She was found in a cell, almost completely forgotten by everyone. Haymitch doesn't know why she was even kept alive — they don't know anything yet, because she hasn't talked. But she was hungry, tired, bruised and a little out of herself. Her blonde hair, usually so bright and glossy, has lost its health. There are dark bags under her eyes.

He should have insisted, that night on the roof. He should have taken her with him.

But he didn't, and now she's here — chained to a hospital bed. Both literally — the handcuffs around her wrists are there to prove it — and figuratively.

He's been there for a few hours until she opens her eyes. She's weak, but her head moves slightly and she looks at him, her gaze unwavering.

He suspects he's looked better, too, but nothing can compare to whatever has happened to her.

"Hey," he says, standing up. "You okay?"

She grimaces — he suspects she's uncomfortable but he knows she's been treated for the pain — and nods. There's a small scar on her neck — he can see it more clearly now. It makes his blood boil.

"It's over, Effie," he says dumbly, because he isn't sure of what to tell her. "It's over, now."

His hand covers her. It's not a good idea, because that's when she notices the handcuffs.

"Is it?" her voice cracks when she speaks, but her eyes remain void of tears.

It kills him how empty they look.

* * *

They're standing in her living room — her building survived the bombing and the war, and her place hasn't been ransacked. She was just discharged this morning, before Katniss disturbed everyone by shooting Coin instead. He won't be able to see her anytime soon, so he seeks Effie instead. She's been distant enough that she doesn't talk about visiting Katniss, or seeing Peeta — she asks about them, but doesn't seem inclined to see them.

The color has returned to her cheeks — the wigs are forgotten now. He saw her briefly, this morning, before the execution, and he could tell returning to her previous outfits nearly killed her. She says she gave herself a haircut, just to try to get herself back on check, and the shorter hair looks good on her. He never thought she could have curly hair in the past, but judging by the wavy locks she sports now, she clearly used to keep them straight in some other way.

"Thank you for coming," she says quietly. She hasn't invited him to sit down. "I can't offer you much. My cupboards are empty."

"You need any help with that?" he asks worriedly.

"No, no," she rebuffs him at once, tugging at the sleeves of her blouse. It's the first time he sees her wearing pants. They look fancy, but he suspects it's a pajama set. "It's fine, I know my way around."

Haymitch nods, but feels uneasy. It's plain to see she's no longer the same person she used to be.

"Let me know if there's any news on Katniss," Effie tells him.

He takes a deep breath.

"Effie…"

" _Don't_ ," she interrupts him. "Don't, Haymitch. I know what you'll say," she shakes her head, takes a slow, deep breath. "It wasn't your fault, and I don't blame you. Don't worry about me."

He nods — there isn't much he can do besides respecting her and whatever decision she makes.

* * *

He sees her again just after Katniss' trial is over. It's been almost three months since they spoke in her apartment, and his first thought is that she doesn't look great.

She's still thin, but not as much as before — that's progress, he figures. She's fidgeting her hands nervously when he opens the door to the room he's been calling home for months now. Her eyes seem almost haunted as they look over him, and he knows he has to do something. Anything. He has to help her. He's failed before — he can't fail again.

"I've come to say goodbye," she offers. He isn't quite used to the natural hair being displayed so openly now. The clothes are bright, though — a little loose, but bright. She's wearing heels from before and he doesn't get  _why_ — he knows she's split an ankle, so that has to be painful and ill-advised. "I heard the news, I suspected you would be going soon. They won't let me see Katniss, but…"

"She won't be able to see anyone until she's in Twelve," Haymitch tells her as he walks closer to where she's staying. "The boy is staying a while longer. Needs treatment."

Effie nods. "Yes, yes. I see him every week," she closes her eyes for a moment, and when they open he sees the same hollow gaze from months ago. "Do take care of her."

"Of course. That's what babysitting is, right?" he says bitterly. "Exactly what I wanted to do. Go back to that hole and stay there forever."

Effie purses her lips, and looks at him kindly. "You will rebuild. The world is different now. Maybe in a few years you'll get to travel through Panem again. Properly."

He hears the emptiness behind the fake bright tone.

"You could come with us," Haymitch offers, quickly. "Help us rebuild."

Effie smiles. It's a slow, different smile. She blinks and he sees tears around her eyes. She shakes her head. "No. No, I couldn't. I have a lot to do here."

"Like what?" he asks skeptically. "Come with us, Effie."

She looks down, fidgeting her fingers again. "Peeta isn't the only one who needs treatment. And I— well, I have to get back to my own footing. Find purpose."

"You could find purpose in Twelve," Haymitch says lamely.

Effie looks up and smiles again. "How, exactly?"

He shrugs. The world is different now — he knows she's lost her family and he doubts her old friends have remained the same since the war. It's a shaky ground, the one they're standing on. They may very well be what is left for the other. The thought isn't as scary as it might have been in the past.

But Effie shakes her head.

"Goodbye, Haymitch," she says at last, opening her arms in invitation.

He hugs her — she's a small thing compared to him, who's getting some weight back now that he's drinking — unhealthily — again. They don't linger, and pull away quickly. The world is changed, and so are they.

"Don't be a stranger," he asks before they part.

She nods, and part of him wonders if he'll see her again.

In the aftermath of the war, he goes back to a destroyed district with a quiet Katniss, to a life where yearly trips to the Capitol may never be required again.

It doesn't bring him as much comfort as he thought it would.

* * *

Haymitch drinks. Katniss hunts. Peeta bakes.

It's a delicate balance but it works well for Haymitch who rarely leaves his house. He's bought some goslings to help a guy in town who hoped to build his shop again, and now he has half a dozen geese quacking about. Effie visits every now and then — she found a job with Plutarch and seems happy with it. She usually stays at Peeta's house — Haymitch suspects they got closer when the boy was still in the Capitol — and Haymitch doesn't intrude much.

She intrudes enough for the both of them. Which is funny, considering she's all about what's polite and proper in society.

She doesn't like his geese, and wouldn't enter his house if some wondered around the front door; he builds a pen for them, with Peeta's help. It's not because of Effie, it's just because he's tired of leaving his door open to find a goose stealing his lunch.

It  _really_ is because of that.

She's still recovering, he knows — they don't mention the war and try not to talk about past Games with her. Katniss has talked about writing a book in the future, but the thought is put aside — none of them really wants to deal with that now.

Change is slow, but it comes; within a year, Twelve is flourishing. It's tentative and quiet, but it's there.

Effie convinces him to buy some new furniture during one of her visits — probably her third visit in this first year — and she sends him catalogues and magazines to shop from. He can't choose a damn thing, and isn't inclined to. He's always spent his money on alcohol and alcohol alone, so everything else seems like a waste.

Effie tells him it's not a waste during her next visit — her first after the anniversary of the free country. She helps him choose furniture, advises him on new colors for the walls — because what's a renovation without painting the walls? — and eventually advises him to change the floors as well. They spend the whole weekend going through such plans — or more like she spends the weekend like that; he listens and agrees and declines her ideas.

It's him, not Peeta, who walks her to the station on Sunday evening, and she treats him to a hug and an honest smile before hopping on the train.

He grows used to her — no longer finds it unusual to catch her without much makeup on, admires the way the loose, discrete dresses cover her skin and chastises the high heels she insists on wearing. She's trying to find a balance between the past and the present — trying to find a future in between that. The simple clothes versus the extravagant dresses; the exotic makeup versus the basic look; bright colored high heels versus flat shoes. She still doesn't look like herself — and Haymitch isn't talking about her appearance when he thinks that.

He doesn't love her. Not  _really_ , anyway; he desires her, yes, because she's an attractive woman, and he's always been attracted to her. He knows first hand they get on better on the sheets than during the day. But he isn't sure where they stand — they've changed, and he feels as if she hasn't found her footing yet. That's what she requested that day in the Capitol. So he's waiting — he isn't sure what for, but he is.

The next day, on Monday, the girl stops by with bread from Peeta and finds Haymitch slouching on the couch, intending on spending the day lazily.

"Back at it again, then," she notes, emotionless. She's looking at the bottle he's holding. "You drink less when Effie's around."

Huh. He hasn't noticed it.

* * *

It's been three weeks since her last visit and she's wearing a bright blue dress and flat sparkly shoes. He advised her on the flats because half the floor is loose.

"So this is what a revolution looks like," she smirks in his direction. " _Oh_ , I do love the walls. Do you see how lovely this shade will look with the mahogany floors you chose?"

More like the mahogany floors she  _made him_  choose, but Haymitch won't correct her.

The renovation is slow and a mess. But since a lot of Twelve is still under constant construction, the material is pretty easy to find. It's good for him, he thinks — it gives him what to think about. He painted the walls himself with Peeta's help and it came out well enough — he even slept through the nights when they worked on it. The floors, on the other hand, need professionals.

"Did you forget I'm colorblind, Princess?" Haymitch asks, leaning against the wall a few steps behind her. The fireplace is painted white and it's his favorite spot so far. He wants to buy some new shelves to put his books in the living room instead of around the house or inside the dark library upstairs.

"On the contrary, we've been working with shades that do well for you," she tells him, walking around carefully, inspecting the work that's still half done. "I think you see this the same way that I do."

Haymitch frowns.

"What?"

"The blue shade of the walls, the mahogany. It's the same for you and me," Effie says distractedly. "It's your house, darling, and you should be comfortable in it."

The term of endearment is new — well, he hasn't heard it since they spent the day at her apartment so many years ago, anyway.

"What happened to 'red is all the rage right now'?" Haymitch asks.

She turns around and looks at him. Standing in front of the curtainless window, a yellow halo forms around her hair. "You can't see red properly. So it may be all the rage, but it won't work with you."

She moves on by complimenting the work on the walls and saying the hardwood should be ready in a week — she asks him to send her a picture when it's ready, because she isn't sure when she'll be able to visit again. Work has been demanding, she says, and she wants to move to a new apartment — too many memories in the old one.

"Dr. Aurelius says I should have done this a while ago anyway," she comments. "I don't know why it's taken me so long. And seeing your renovation — well, I think this is just what I need."

She sounds hopeful and he sees a glint in her eyes that he hasn't seen in a long time. They've all come a long way, definitely, and no one can compare their life experiences, but Effie's the one who's had to change her lifestyle completely in favor of staying alive.

"Why don't you come here?" Haymitch asks casually. Too casually.

"To live?" he nods. She laughs. "What would I do here, Haymitch? There's hardly a lot of job opportunities."

"You're good at this renovating business. You could try something," he suggests.

"I've always had a great eye for architecture," she announces. He smiles, because it reminds him of her past self. "I'm  _serious_. I did study it. I'm somewhat of an expert, you know."

"Well, there you go."

"Don't be silly. I couldn't afford a house in the village, and I wouldn't want to live in town," she wrinkles her nose, then catches herself. "Not that isn't lovely, it's just that…"

Too many memories. He knows.

"Yeah, I get it. You could stay here, though."

"Oh, no. I suspect Peeta can't stand me in his house for more than a weekend," Effie sighs. "Now, I've had my eye on an apartment in the second sector, you remember that, don't you? Not too far from the city at all. We went to a restaurant there once."

"I meant you could stay  _here_."

"Here?" Effie repeats, eyes going wide. "With you?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

"I would share a house with you," she states. Haymitch stares at her blankly. She huffs. "Don't be silly, Haymitch. We both know I would drive you crazy."

She laughs, and brings the subject back to the renovation. She asks about the couch he's chosen and he decides to let it go. If she doesn't want to come, then he won't make her — if she thinks a new apartment in the city will make her happy, then he hopes that will be it.

It's only later on, when he's back from dinner at Peeta's, that he realizes they haven't really argued for a while; they bicker, sure, but it's mainly for teasing, and not hurting — not at all like it used to be in the past. He doesn't think they would drive each other crazy — sure, maybe a little, but everyone drives him crazy — Katniss with her bluntness, Peeta with his eagerness. That's just what living in a community is about, really. He's always been used to living alone, but clearly those kids won't give him a rest anytime soon. So  _that_ point is moot anyway.

He doesn't know why he goes to the train station, but he does — he walks quickly in hopes of catching her before the last train to the Capitol leaves that evening. Luck appears to be on his side when he spots her sitting on a bench, looking around her distractedly. She frowns when she spots him, then stands up.

"Is something wrong?" Effie asks when he's close enough. "Are the children—"

"They're fine. Why would we drive each other crazy?" Haymitch asks, coming to a stop right in front of her.

She opens her mouth, stares at him blankly.

"Well, you… your geese, for once," she frowns. He does too. The geese have a pen now. It's a dumb point, and she knows it. "You're a slob."

"And you're too uptight. We can both work on that."

She stares at him, surprised. He's not usually the optimistic one.

"You don't like cats. I have a cat," Effie says, crossing her arms in front of her.

"I can learn to live with that. Buttercup is always bugging me."

"We don't know if Betty will even like you," she says lamely. "I have a lot of clothes too."

"And I have four guest bedrooms I don't use. Pick one for your clothes."

"I can't really afford to share a house that big."

"I have more than enough for both of us."

"You… drink a lot."

"I can stop. I  _can_ ," he adds when she narrows her eyes. "I have and I can. I barely drink when you're here, anyway."

"Are you…  _seriously_ saying you'll stop drinking if I live with you?" Effie asks slowly.

Haymitch nods. "Yeah. Sure. I mean, we're… this is… It's a different world, Effie. It's that  _another_ world you talked about."

She smiles. "That was years ago."

"Exactly."

"You left me, Haymitch."

He's not prepared for that.

"Effie. I wanted to bring you along. I know that, I'll never forgive myself—"

"No! No, not that, I meant… you left me, that night, in the Capitol," she says quickly. "You just left, and I didn't hear from you until the following year. I don't… I know you didn't love me, Haymitch, but that was…"

"But I did," Haymitch interrupts her. He runs a hand through his hair. "That's why I left, don't you see? The risks were too high, Effie. If I didn't care, then I would have never left!"

There's a sharp intake of breath. "You loved me?"

"Yes," he can only stare at her; the truth is so easy and enlightening that he wonders why it took him so long to realize it. "Yeah, I don't— I don't think I ever stopped."

Effie blinks, turns her head down — trying to control herself, he knows it. It's harder these days. It used to be so easy. He looks around — the station isn't very full. Her train has already arrived. She looks up at him again — eyes impossibly blue, so bright.

"Okay. So if I…  _were_ to live with you," she starts slowly. "I pack my bags and come to Twelve for good. And then… what?"

It's the true question, he realizes.

"Uh, we could renovate the rest of the house," Haymitch suggests. "I'm crap at interior design. There are a lot of rooms."

Effie laughs.

It's a true laugh.

"You can have your own study too, if you want," he offers.

Her hand reaches for his cheek. "I don't care about the study."

She coils her hand around the back of his neck and brings him closer — their lips meet, and for the first time ever it feels like hello.

"That's a yes, then?" he mumbles against her lips.

Effie laughs, and nods. "I really want the closet, though."

"You'll get it."

He holds her by the waist and pulls her closer.

It's only much later, when she's missed her train and her suitcase is lying next to his wardrobe and they are facing each other in bed, that she says the words to him.

"I never stopped either, you know."

He traces her darkened lips with his thumb, stares at her bright blue eyes, and vows never to forget it.

* * *

They do drive each other crazy.

At first, it's all about habits — he truly is a slob, and she's too uptight. They argue about cleaning constantly, he complains about the way she's organized the bathroom cabinets. He finds himself annoyed at the many bottles that can be found in the shower, and uses shower gel instead of shampoo more than once until he gets the hang of it.

Betty, the cat, is annoying as hell. Hisses every time he disturbs her in some way. Haymitch can't complain about that because one of the geese did run after Effie when she tried to feed them once.

If the kids are shocked at the new development, they don't say it. He suspects Peeta knew — and likely had to enlighten Katniss.

Slowly, every room of his house is transformed in some way; he can hardly believe it's the same house he's been living for twenty-six years. Effie gives away most of his clothes to people in need — some of them were still the ones his first escort bought, so he can't really fault Effie for calling them old-fashioned.

"Everything old can be made new again," she says when she picks out a shirt he especially likes. He's sitting on the bed, alone, watching as she takes the clothes out of the old wardrobe. It will go, she says — they need new furniture for the bedroom. "Like democracy, I suppose."

He snickers.

Over time, the arguments become less about their living situation and more about  _them_  — Effie thinks he should eat more healthily, but her tries in the kitchen don't usually end well; it's amusing at first, but after a while he's just tired of eating bad food.

He more or less becomes the official cook in the household.

It takes him six months to cut down the liquor, and he  _misses_  it, every day. He catches Effie smoking one day, after a nightmare, and it leads to a huge fight. As far as he knew, she only smoked briefly in her early adulthood — the development is a surprise to him.

She stops smoking.

The nightmares are recurrent — not every night, but often enough that they're frequent. She's learned to not touch him for a few minutes, to wake him up slowly; he will embrace her gently and tear her away from hers. Sometimes they go back asleep — sometimes one of them is awake and they keep each other company.

It's not bad, he decides. Not bad at all. Effie is a better company than liquor.

Still, not only do they have different personalities, they have different habits and different opinions. He wants to help rebuilding town, she's worried he'll hurt himself. She constantly wants to travel to the Capitol, to buy clothes and accessories and things for the house, he wants nothing more to do with that place. She wants a kid one day, he is pretty sure he shouldn't be a father. He has money, she's still struggling financially. She complains about his old habits — he reads during the day, doesn't do much around the house, while she's out working half a day.

They talk it out.

Communication isn't easy, but it's easier than it used to be.

Still, it's not so bad to sit together on the couch after a long day. The fire is keeping them warm and it's been snowing steadily outside for a while. Effie sighs against him, looks around for the remote, and he knows he's about to watch a movie he isn't really interested in but he will end up liking anyway.

Like her, he supposes.

Before she can turn the television on, however, he speaks.

"Say, Sweetheart," he runs his fingers through her hair slowly, his gaze on the fireplace, "do we have any bread?"

She hums. "There are some buns left from this morning," she says distractedly. "We just had dinner. Are you still hungry?"

"We could toast some," he shrugs.

Her eyes widen.

"I… What?" He waits for her to gather her thoughts around. Then she narrows her eyes. "I  _hope_ you have a better proposal planned, Haymitch."

He really doesn't.

He's gonna have to come up with something soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know your thoughts!


End file.
